


The Road Seem Dark As Night

by dexf



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-25
Updated: 2011-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dexf/pseuds/dexf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the tumultuous early days of 1968, the X-Men and the Brotherhood find themselves caught up in the social and racial upheavals dominating the country, and for both sides, the lines of their future selves and their shadow war being irrevocably drawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road Seem Dark As Night

**Author's Note:**

> All recognizable characters and settings belong to Marvel; I am using them without permission but mean no harm and am making no profit. The plot and original characters, however belong to me. Any and all feedback is appreciated at dexf@sympatico.ca Redistribution of this tale for profit is illegal. Please do not archive this story without contacting me first to obtain my permission.

"This isn't a good time, Mister Clark." Clyde Tolson was already sweating, despite it being a cool day in Washington. His mottled face was a stark contrast to his starched white collar and floral tie. Like most senior members of government service, Ramsey Clark had heard all of the rumours about Tolson's relationship with Director Hoover. Even Truman Capote had jumped in, tagging Hoover with the moniker 'killer fruit'; the repeating of which in range of any Hoover loyalist was a one way ticket out of the Bureau. The circumstances were so murky that Representative John McCormack had privately noted to him that it was ironic 'the most likely homosexual relationship in the nation's senior leadership is the one least likely to ever be investigated'.

Personally, Clark didn't care whether or not J Edgar Hoover was queer or not. The old man's host of other odious habits and power grasping ploys almost made the idea of him being a queen humanizing. He also never bought the idea that gays were by nature potential traitors or unfit to hold office. Too many years in federal courtrooms and too many discussions with his father about the Supreme Court cases he had officiated as a justice had passed for him to use ideology to justify intolerance. Secretly gay officials were more open to blackmail, but so where adulterers and drug addicts. In Clark's opinion, once in public service, it was a lot more important whether they could keep their dicks in their pants than what they wanted to stick them in.

"Attorney General." Ramsey said mildly, and turned his gaze on to Tolson. The difference between the two men was striking; Tolson was old, slightly jowly with a predominant nose and his short thinning hair carefully plastered back from a wide forehead. In contrast, Clark was a young forty, his thick hair carefully combed back and his angular face set with purpose. Tolson flushed and broke the gaze first.

"Sorry about that, Mister Attorney General. But it still isn't a good time. The Director is in a meeting."

"I suggest that he finds a gracious way to cut it short, Mister Tolson. This is important."

"Sir?" Tolson didn't mind playing the fool at times. While he'd heard all the rumours and jokes too, he took his role as Hoover's right hand and shield seriously.

The minor war between the office of the Attorney General and the FBI had erupted not long after Clark had been appointed. His predecessor, Nick Katzenbach, had been a willing supporter of Hoover's agenda, turning Robert Kennedy's former office into a rubber stamp for the FBI Director's endless demands for wire taps and surveillance orders. Clark had stopped it, refusing to allow Hoover's men to legally bug the phones and homes of leading civil rights and anti-war activists. Hoover would grumble and muse threateningly about consequences if one of 'his' suspects was to turn out to be a national threat.

"Director Hoover, Mister Tolson. I'll wait here." He said, and acknowledging defeat, Clyde turned and bustled down the hallway, out of sight as he rounded the corner. After a few minutes, just long enough to remind the Attorney General just who's realm he was in now, an agent nodded him through to the Director's office.

"Mister Attorney General." The figure behind the desk said, his speech accented by a slightly nasal East Coast drawl. Normally, it was 'Mister Clark', but obviously the slight to Clyde Tolson wasn't going to be dismissed. Ramsey took a seat uninvited, leaning back and folding his hands like a man settling in for a film.

"Director. I need to speak with you."

"The Bureau is always ready to assist the office of the Attorney General." J Edgar Hoover said formulaically, his words never touching the steely contempt in his eyes. Ramsey Clark was a weak idealist. He had a thing for King and his cronies, blocking Hoover's efforts to expose proof of the civil rights leader as an adulterer to the public. He openly dismissed Hoover's suspicions of Communist infiltrators, instead focusing on organized crime. In short, he was a chip off the RFK block, which meant he was an obstacle to his FBI. Hoover had shed no tears over the younger Kennedy's assassination, commenting to Clyde at the time that some men suffer the fate they deserve.

"I'm glad to hear that. Where is Special Agent Amos Fredrick Duncan?"

"Pardon me?"

"I believe he's called 'Fred' if that helps."

"You can't expect me to know where ever agent is at all times, Mister Attorney General." Hoover blustered, rapidly considering his options. That was the last name the FBI Director expected Clark to have, and already he was trying to determine who possibly could have passed it along from his files.

"Isn't that part of your mystique, Director? Your FBI can be anywhere, listening in at any time, and at the top of the pyramid," Clark smiled, without a touch of warmth. "Well, there is the famed J Edgar Hoover, who knows a little of something about everyone."

"I'm not used to being insulted by my colleagues, Mister Attorney General. Especially those who weren't even born when my service to this country started." Hoover gathered himself in his chair. Clark may have surprised him, but he was power in Washington. Presidents spoke respectfully to him, both for his abilities and for his knowledge of their friends and enemies. It was an incautious man who put himself on the wrong side of Hoover, and very few did so intentionally.

"I understand that, Director. But I am faced with a dilemma. The facts are becoming clear that a senior official of the United States government has intentionally ignored the laws regarding the right of law enforcement to conduct surveillance on American citizens. My office rejected four requests for wiretaps on a school in Upstate New York, and yet, I have copies of written orders issued to a Special Agent Duncan to install a team in place to provide intelligence on that school." Clark held the old man's gaze levelly.

"Obviously there's some sort of misunderstanding, Mister Attorney General. Such an order would come from my office, or that of Assistant Director Felt. I know of no such order." Hoover half smiled. "May I ask where you received the information from?"

"Anonymously through the DC post."

"I fear that you've been the target of an attempt to discredit the Bureau." Neither man believed it for a second, but both also knew that this wasn't about Clark trying to trap Hoover. It was just another maneuver in their long conflict. "Likely another Communist plant, or an agitator from one of those civil rights groups. They make the most insane charges against the government."

"What about Special Agent Duncan?"

"I'm not sure. I believe he was tasked to an investigation in New York, but it's a minor matter. I'll speak with Mark about it, and send your office a clarification."

"Thank you, Director." Clark rose from his chair and reached out to shake Hoover's hand. While the Director was aged and wrinkled, his grip was still strong as they shook. "I would like to speak with Agent Duncan at the earliest opportunity, just to ensure we can close this before a full investigation is required."

"Of course. My secretary will see you out." With a final nod, Clark left the office and Hoover sat back down angrily. After a moment, he picked up the phone, and Tolson came through the door. "I need you to call Duncan, Clyde. Tell him to get out of Westchester. Someone leaked the surveillance detail to the AG's office."

"Explains about the visit. What about the taps you ordered."

"Cancel them. If there's a hole this big in security already, moving forward is just asking for more evidence to end up in the wrong hands." Hoover was furious about the breach in his security. The Director had implemented every security protocol his borderline paranoia could devise, and there was still a snitch in his organization somewhere. After a moment, he motioned to Tolson. "I want you to start an internal investigation on this. Everyone who had access or could have had access to the files on Duncan's operation is to be fully vetted again, starting from Felt on down."

"Yes, Director." Tolson was hard pressed not to groan. It was a long, invasive and frustrating assignment, which would require dozens of men on it full time. But Hoover was in no mood to be argued with. "And the school?"

"We need to take another direction. I need to think about it from the start again." Hoover slumped back in his chair. "Don't worry, Clyde. I have no intention of just letting Charles Xavier or his 'school' go their merry way until I find out what they're up to."

***

“Corporal John Proudstar, you are now officially honourably discharged from the United States Marine Corps. Did they try and talk you into a second tour?” The asphalt was baking under the Arizona sun, and both men clasped hands warmly. The Army transport normally was not the way service men returned home, but in the case of John Proudstar, silver star winner, his commanding officer had pulled a few strings to get him a seat on a plane headed to the tarmac outside of Edwards Air Force base.

“Didn’t think you’d come out, Elias.” Proudstar’s voice was neutral, like he was receiving a mailman at the door as opposed to his cousin. He stooped to sling his kit bag over the other. “Figured you’d just send a farm truck out from the rez and bring me back with the lettuce.”

“I was tempted.” Elias said, shaking off the lack of emotion in his cousin. When John Proudstar had volunteered for the Marines, the two of them had been drinking buddies and occasional co-conspirators in the normal teenaged trouble young men got up to. Elias had been a few years older, but John was mature for his age; a product of having to take up the role as defacto parent in his father’s absence and his mother’s chronic bouts of sickness almost at the same time he’d started high school. He’d dropped out a few years later and joined most of the other young men doing farm labour to bring in some money. When a couple of his close friends had been picked up in the stolen car with a spare tire stuffed with hash, the local sheriff mentioned that if Proudstar volunteered to serve like his father had, he might not question the men too closely on who else was involved.

And now he was back. A hero, even. With only two months left in his tour, Proudstar had joined a relief platoon that landed under fire at Khe Sanh. During the next two months, he’d been cited a half dozen times, going out at night to retrieve wounded men from positions under fire, saving a dozen lives. It was ironic that he too was forced to be airlifted out with the wounded, after an unidentified jungle malady had him confined to a bed with a dangerously high fever and the shakes for weeks. Elias and the others had passed around his letters, trying to connect his carefully edited accounts with the footage they’d seen on television coming in from Vietnam. “Well, good you didn’t. The President’s numbers are in the tank, and they keep saying its Tet that did it to him.”

“They’ll see. They’ve been pushed back everywhere since Tet.” John’s features closed off again, a clear sign that the last thing he wanted to talk about was Vietnam. They climbed into a pickup, and Elias pulled them out of the parking lot and on to the highway. They quickly passed a mile sign for Camp Verde, and John allowed himself a tight smile. Home. Or was it?

“How’s Jimmy?”

“He’s maybe a year or two from doing time. Your aunt has a place made up for him, but most of the time, he’s out with his friends.” Elias’ expression conveyed his worry far better than his words ever could. When John’s mother had died a few years ago, their father had made a surprising return back to Camp Verde, promising to draw the family back together. John was already almost a man at that point, and didn’t believe him. He’d already been abandoned by him once, and wasn’t willing to risk trusting him a second time. But for his younger brother, James, the return of Charlie Proudstar was like the return of a hero. He came with his war stories as a Marine in the Pacific; about fighting Japs on Peleliu, storming pillboxes and fortifications like a superhero. A six months later, he was gone chasing some new scheme, leaving John and James alone again.

“I sent some letters. Tried calling. He knows I’m coming home?”

“He knows. Can’t say he cared much. Some of his greaser friends started joking about you being GI Injun Joe. Nasty little pack of fucks too.” Elias didn’t bother to hide his disgust. The biggest problem they had was that poverty made allies of young poor men, and where the Native community had tried to stay at least mostly on the right side of an often unfair law, the local Mexican families had criminal groups from home mixed in with the honest labourers and ranchers, and angry young men were easy marks with the promised of quick money. “I talked to Sheriff Roman a few weeks ago. He said he’s been seen on both sides of the border over the last couple of months.”

“He’s fourteen. I wasn’t any different.” John shrugged, willing to believe that things for his brother were the same as he faced. But Elias shook his head, a worried look on his deeply tanned face.

“John, you and your buddies ran some dope for college kids. Boosted a couple of cars. These kids are working for guys connected to syndicates. Over in Terrahauk, they found a fifteen and a sixteen year old pair of Chicano boys in a ditch, hands handcuffed behind their backs and shot in the back of the head.” That had shocked him. It was an execution style killing – quick, efficient and to make a point. “If Jimmy gets in deep with these guys, he could get himself killed, or end up doing real time.”

“I’ll talk to him. Jimmy’s a good kid, Elias. If he’s getting pulled into something, well, we’ll see how funny they feel after a talk with GI Injun Joe about it.” John scrubbed his hands through his black hair, which felt absurdly long even at less than an inch. “I didn’t come back here to let some little beaner smart-mouth me ‘bout things. Or my little brother.”

“I remember when it was you tagging along behind, trying to keep up.” Elias tried to lighten things, afraid of the chilling note in his friend’s voice when he talked about sorting things out. The man who had left over a year ago was your average guy; ready to back you up in a bar fight and stand up for himself. But this creature was different. He had a killing note to his words, in the casual way that he’d never heard before. Elias had considered the army, but he’d been accepted as an apprentice electrician, and had spent three years in Phoenix, learning the trade and a long way from causing trouble before he’d returned. Proudstar was something different now. “You got a job lined up?”

“Dale said I could pick up some time at the garage while everything gets sorted out from the Army. I’ve had a couple of offers for school.” John rolled down the window, squinting from the dust but enjoying the cool rush of air.

“Offers? Shit, how do you get offers from the schools around here?”

“They aren’t around here.” John knew the fight was bound to happen sooner or later. Might as well be now.

“You’re not thinking about that again.” Elias said sourly, a scowl replacing his former good humour.

“Haven’t thought about much else.”

The truck fishtailed as Elias slammed on the brakes. He yanked the wheel sideways and they slewed into the shoulder, kicking up a cloud of dust as they did so. “You son of a bitch. You’re not talking about getting a degree from the UofA and being an engineer or something, John. This is more of this Native Nation bullshit that you’ve been filling your head with.”

Proudstar didn’t say anything, not even acknowledging the accusation. Elias leaned his arms on the wheel and sighed.

“Listen to me, John. You don’t need to tell me shit is fucked up. For us, other reservations, but all of this crap – Russell Means, Dennis Banks, Herb Powless – none of this is about our people. I don’t know what happened to you over there, but-“

“That’s right. You don’t know what happened over there. You don’t know what I had to do for this fucking flag on the front of my uniform. For the country that I’m considered to barely a part of. And I’m tired to playing nice for the locals so the rez doesn’t get tossed by the sheriffs.” Emotion entered John’s voice, as the words stacked up on each other in his rush to get them out. “Every damn spade I served with was talking ‘march, march, march’ about the South. About King and Jackson and that Washington was being forced to take notice. How long since they noticed us, huh? Do you think the NCIO was formed because we were nice and quiet for long enough?”

“Don’t give me your Good Native protest shit, John. You’re an Apache from the Camp Verde rez in a uniform with a medal. All of those assholes are from Chicago and Minneapolis; it’s going to be First Nations all the way, with them wheeling you out as the token war hero and talk about how the government owes us this and that. And the second anyone starts listening, the agenda is going to be set by them, with anything for the Southwest as the first thing cut out in any deal.” Elias shot back. It was impossible not to be touched by the movements in the last several years to push back for Native American rights. Half of the reservations out in the west were almost scrub land, pushed back out of better growing lands by one sided settlements and ineffective councils of elders. Many young Natives were taking their cues from the newly militant black and Hispanic groups rising in California.

“Not being at the table at all guarantees that we get forgotten.” Proudstar shook his head. “Unless we give them a political reason that they can’t push aside, we’re never going to anywhere.”

“Now you sound like your dad. Marching on Washington with all the other Native veterans from the last war and demanding their rights. I guess I missed the headlines about that happening.”

“What are you pissed about, Elias? That it didn’t happen or that you don’t believe it ever will?”

“I believe that they’ll trot you out to the front of every protest and march in your nice uniform and make sure lots of papers get your picture. And when one of them goes bad, the cops are going to crack your head open and we’ll have a nice service while their investigations determine that it happened while you were resisting arrest. And we’ll have another little memorial and your angry little brother ready to get revenge out of the first cop he sees in Phoenix after a few drinks.” Elias angrily downshifted, pulling off of the highway on to a smaller road. “And it won’t do a damn thing to help anyone here. You’ve got a family here, Proudstar. A people. You can go to some university as a token gesture and pretend that you’re going to change the world. Or you can focus your shit here and earn and actually make things better for your people. You take your pick.”

John bit back a retort. They’d had this argument before, and he had to admit that Elias had a point. Leaving to try and fight for a political cause in Washington instead of saying and making things better for his family did sound like arrogance. At the very least, it sounded like misplaced and egotistical self-importance. He was silent the rest of the way to the reservation.

***

“It’s a lovely estate, Charles.” Sir James Braddock took a sip from his glass, enjoying the view from the terrace as they enjoyed their breakfast. Charles had been his student at one time; possessing a brilliant grasp of genetics and the potential for mutation in the genome. He had been amazed how fast the young man had seized on the emerging field of science and the contributions he’d already made. Already, scientific journals had begun to use his term ‘x-factor’ as the trigger for genetic mutation which they were trying to isolate.

“My great grandfather stole John Jacob Astor’s architect. He called us a clan of pirates fit only for a hanging. According to my late great aunt, there was some truth to his accusation.” Charles Xavier smiled, and finished off another forkful of pancake. “I took a look in the public archives about Chester Xavier, my father’s great-great-grandfather and Astor’s contemporary. There was a duel that was squelched by the Mayor at the time, apparently over a woman.”

“Astonishing. I have problems imagining your family in trouble over a woman.” Braddock said dryly, earning a bark of laughter from Charles.

“Well, you have to keep some family traditions alive.” Charles finished buttering a piece of toast and set it down next to his plate. “You still haven’t told me what the visit is about, Professor Braddock.”

“James, Charles. You’re no longer my student, after all. I hear that you’re thinking of teaching yourself. Harvard, I hope. It’s hardly Oxford, but it is at least something of stature for you damn colonials.”

“Not exactly. I had rather thought to emulate your own facility on Muir Island.” Xavier took a placid bite from his toast as Braddock choked on his orange juice.

“Enh?” He thumped his chest. “I think you’ve been misinformed, Charles. Muir Island is just an old Royal Navy outpost, with an ancient lighthouse and an abandoned base.”

“Which was recently renovated by the British government for the purposes of researching the mutant condition and developing materials to inform Parliament in new legislation regarding such effected Britons.” He speared a piece of bacon, and twirled it idly on his fork. “Please Professor, you wouldn’t have left Oxford for any other reason than national service.”

Braddock was quiet for a long moment, regarding Xavier levelly over the table. He removed his glasses and polished them against his lapel. “Charles, have you used your powers on me?” His voice had gone very grave.

“You know better than to ask me that, Professor.”

“Do I?” Sir James said, replacing his glasses. “Charles, I’ve known you since you nearly failed yourself out of undergrad over that Irish girl. You admitted to me your telepathy that second year. I consider us to be friends. And I can’t be sure whether or not you have ever used your powers on me.”

Charles was quiet for a long moment, sobered by his friend’s admission. “I’m afraid you have me in an impossible situation, Sir James. I can’t think of a way that I could possibly reassure you that I haven’t used my powers on you without lying about their capabilities. I have to rely on trust.”

“And now you understand just how much you’re asking of normal men in regards to mutants, Charles. I choose to believe that your character would not permit you to use your powers to influence my thoughts or our relationship. But if, say, Her Majesty’s government asked me for a way to prove that fact, I would have no way to convince them of that fact.”

Suddenly, the morning sun didn’t seem as warm as it had a few moments ago. Charles Xavier had entered into this experiment six years ago with nothing but optimism. Even the crippling injury at Erik’s hand couldn’t diminish his belief that humans and mutants could co-exist peacefully. More importantly, his belief that humans and mutants had to forge a partnership if they were to avoid mutually assured destruction either from an atomic war or a genetic one. But he was unfortunately prone to forgetting just how things must look from the perspective of the average person, and that was who he had to convince of his dream if it was ever to work.

“Have you considered what your research will focus on at Muir Island, Sir James?”

“The very question I posed to you, Charles. There isn’t a government existing that isn’t scrambling to consider what ‘mutant’ means for their natural security. I hope that our efforts will be positive for both communities; ways to identify and train mutants to control their abilities, as well as ways to safeguard the non-mutant populace from exploitation from those same abilities.”

“And the military?”

“Will be kept at arms length for now. Britain will follow the approach of the United States and the USSR for now, that any attempt to weaponize mutants or field mutants as part of the armed forces will be regarded as an escalation that will risk a nuclear response if used.” Braddock considered the shouting matches that had taken place over the years following the Cuba Embargo incident, when some of England’s highest military leaders had pushed for an aggressive mutant task force to counter what the Soviets were surely building. The only positive had been that the strange ‘Brotherhood of Mutants’ shadow organization that had appeared over the last few years had been particularly effective at uncovering secret mutant weapon programs in all countries, and destroying them thoroughly while sending unassailable evidence along to the United Nations and the World Court. They might be terrorists, but they had been effective in halting the growth of such programs through fear, and now, lacking an effective way to find and track new mutants beyond happenstance, most of the programs had simply been shuttered for the future.

“It almost sounds like you’re proposing a school at Muir, Sir James.” Charles laughed easily, his face betraying no sign of his concern that his old teacher had uncovered Charles’ own plans here in Westchester.

“A noble idea, but hardly tenable. We will focus on research primarily, and a level of experimentation and training as subjects become available. Which leads me to what I wanted to speak to you about, Charles.”

“Certainly, Sir James. I admit, I was surprised at the sudden visit. What can I do to help?”

“My daughter, Elizabeth, is in need of help.” Braddock paused, his normally sharp gaze suddenly unfocused and absent.

“Betsy? Last I heard, she was modeling for Chanel in France.”

“She was. Unfortunately, she was in a car accident last year. A damnable one with a drunk driver. Her fiancé and the other driver were killed instantly. Betsy suffered a head trauma that left her in a coma for a month.”

“Coma? James, why didn’t you come to me then?"

“I had to trust the doctors, Charles. Besides, it would have hardly been a simple matter to just turn her over to you without revealing your abilities. Since the accident, she’s suffered from a severe loss of vision in both eyes, and periods of dementia and catatonia. All of the doctors believe it is brain damage from the accident, but they cannot isolate any specific cause.” The professor was gone, and in his place, a worried father of a sick daughter.

“I’ll have my secretary arrange for the next flight available. We’ll return to London at once and-“

“Charles, I appreciate your kindness, but that won’t be possible. I don’t believe that Betsy is suffering from brain damage.”

“I don’t think I follow.”

“I think she might be like you.” Braddock said, leaning forward on the table. “The effects of the crash might have broken through a mental barrier suppressing her abilities, leaving her overwhelmed by the input. Think of it, Charles. One day, you are safely inside your own mind, and the next, bombarded by the thoughts of others around you, uncontrolled. How would someone react?”

“They would either shut it out or be unable to cope and lose control to the input.” Xavier said softly, well aware of what Braddock spoke of. “Or to most observers, bouts of catatonia and dementia.”

“Quite. My daughter needs help, Charles, and you are the only person I can trust to understand exactly how to help her.” The old man paused suddenly, fighting to keep his emotions in check. Charles covered with a sip from his coffee, helping his friend avoid the embarrassment that his English background would feel from an open display of his worry.

“Sir James, you can trust me to do everything I can to help your daughter.” Xavier understood his reasoning. Trying to treat Betsy in England would raise too many questions, and it would also make it difficult for him to keep her out of an official program with her treatment. “I can arrange for a medical transfer to a local-“

“No need, Charles. Betsy is at the hotel right now. I can fetch her in a half hour.” Braddock gave him an apologetic look. “I was hoping that you would say that.”

Xavier laughed sharply, tempted to twit the older man, but stopped himself. It was his daughter involved, after all, and he imagined he’d do the same. “Let’s go and get Betsy and get her settled in. I swear to you, my friend, I will do everything in my power to help her through this. Perhaps I’ll get to use my Professor title after all.”

***

Los Angeles County Prison was packed to bursting. The LAPD had taken to heart the nervous rumours of black militant violence by cracking down with a heavy club in the Southside and sweeping off whole houses of suspects in sweeps, leaving them to wait in county while they worked up rafts of charges to justify the arrests. The fact that so many of them had minor drug and weapons histories made it even easier for the local district attorneys, who were cutting deals at a record rate. Of course, the pushback had already started, and the number of ‘Free Huey’ t-shirts had tripled in the streets, along with black clad men carrying legal weapons making themselves conspicuous during arrests. It was a fused powder-keg on the streets, with the memory of the Watts Riots still fresh in everyone’s mind.

The guard did take a second look at the tall, thin white man sitting in the booth, waiting to see one of the prisoners. The fact that he was white was curious enough, but he was also refined looking, wearing a perfectly tailored leather jacket and an expensive pair of Tony Lama boots. He looked like a hip lawyer from uptown; something that none of the men held here could afford. Maybe the ACLU was getting generous these days.

For his part, Erik Lehnsherr sat quietly waiting. The poverty of the city didn’t touch him; he’d grown up under far more brutal circumstances and even a race riot held little fear for him. After all, he was working on his own quiet and far more thorough version of the same thing.

After a few minutes, the man he’d requested to see what escorted through the door and sat down at the other side of the booth, separated from him by a steel wire mesh barrier. Unlike most of the men around him, he didn’t yell or gesture, staring coldly at Erik with his one good eye.

“You got summtin’ you want to talk to me about?”

“I might. I hear that the district attorney has taken special interest in your case, Mister Bishop. He’s pushing to make an example, to show the city that the police and city hall still have a firm grip on law and order in Los Angeles.” Erik leaned forward, clasping his hands easily as he regarded the man. His right eye was milky white, torn through with a thick scar that formed a rough ‘M’ from his forehead to his cheek.

“I got nothin’ to say to the press.”

“I’m not the press.”

“Then best you be gone, motherfucker. Before I get angry.” He said, starting to rise from his seat. The last thing he needed was some self satisfied white man baiting him for whatever reason.

“Please sit back down, Mister Bishop. I assure you, we have business together, and it involves your current situation.” His smile was light and unconcerned. He didn’t look like a lawyer, and something in the man’s eyes suggested a hardness to Bishop; the kind he recognized from the streets. At least a little intrigued, he took his seat. It beat sitting in his cell.

“What do you want?”

“I would like to suggest a solution to your upcoming trial. According to the reports, you murdered a Los Angeles police officer in cold blood, electrocuting him as he attempted to arrest you during a break in at transformer station in Reseda.” His gaze was impassive, any emotions carefully locked away as his spoke.

“It’s bullshit. Willy and I did break into the fucking station, sure. But what were we gonna steal? Figured we knock out the power for a couple of hours to show the pigs who really owns the night here in the city.” Bishop shrugged. “The cop came out of no where. Busted me in the face a couple of times with his club, and then muscled me back into the fucking panel. That shit fried his ass, but it was him that put me into the box.”

“Why weren’t you hurt?”

“Do I look like an electrician? Lawyer the brothers hired says that sometimes it can channel through someone harmlessly and ground in someone else, or some shit like that. Says the jury won’t believe that, not when it missed frying a nigger.” Bishop gave a disgusted snort. “So, what, you a lawyer too? Can you get me off?”

“I’m not a lawyer, but I think I can get you out of your current situation, yes. Tell me something, Mister Bishop. When did you get that scar?”

“Fuck off.”

“If I do, you will go to trial in a few months, during which your lawyer will suggest to twelve people that electricity can sometimes channel through a career criminal involved with a militant black power movement without leaving so much as a burn and kill a decorated LAPD officer with a family at home. As you said, we don’t need to guess how effective that argument will be.” Erik’s voice turned as cold as his stare. “Or you can tell me the truth. If I turn out to just be another white asshole looking to rub your nose into it, what has it cost you but a few extra minutes, Lucas?”

No one had used his first name since his mother died nine years ago, and he amazed the man had unearthed it. Even the press had used his movement name – Jomo Bishop – since his arrest. As satisfying as it would be to walk out on the man, he sounded like the kind of guy that could get things done, and regardless of his limited education, Bishop was not a stupid man. He knew that he was very likely going to go to jail for the rest of his life on the charges, and his options had dwindled to nothing.

“When I was sixteen, me and some brothers boosted a black and white while the fat pig was getting some free trim in the back of a clip joint on 38th. We got picked up a couple of days later moving the shotty from the trunk.” Bishop shook his head. “They worked us over at the station for a couple of hours, mostly by the fucker we swiped the car from. He grabbed my balls, said he was going to bend me over and make me his fuckin’ woman. So I hit the faggot. Half dozen cops put the boot to me good, and this fat wop grabs a screwdriver and goes to work on my face.”

“A screwdriver?”

“Spics like to sneak them into the lockup. Just grind down the head a bit, you got a good shiv and easy to hide during a pat down.” He looked grey as he recounted the attack. “Said it happened in the holding cell. Not that anyone cares what some nigger kid says.”

“And the letter?”

“Pig’s name was Mazzilli, but all the cops told internal affairs the spics must have carved me up with the M for Mexico or some shit.” His large hands opened and closed unconsciously, as if recounting the story could put Mazzilli in his grip. “They left me in lock-up in a pool of my own blood for two days. Doc later said they could have saved the eye if I’d gotten help sooner.”

Erik nodded, considering the story. He knew how addictive wanton cruelty could get. The guards at the camps usually started out trying to act like soldiers doing a distasteful duty. But after a couple of months, used to seeing their comrades treat the inmates however they wished, the veneer of civilization disappeared, and a more feral nature emerged. They, ironically, devolved in Erik’s mind. Curiously that a police department that held more than it’s fair share of veterans who had seen those evils first hand would so easily descend to them. It answered a lot of his growing cynicism about the human race.

“I have a proposition for you, Lucas. If, by some miracle, I can see to your release, would you be willing to give me a week of your time. I have some information that a young man such as yourself would be very interested in.”

“Yeah?” Bishop’s tone was wary. Maybe this guy was political; he’d heard of a few that liked to shake loose black tail now and again in return for sexual services. Going up in his neighbourhood taught you early that nothing was ever offered for free. “Why would you do that?”

“Because, not unlike your other militant friends, I see my race living unequal and in fear. I want to push back against the same people who would like nothing better than to make them slaves, afraid that if they don’t, they will find themselves pushed out of power by their betters. Like you, Bishop, I’m a good race man. But unlike you, I know what race that is.”

***

“Will he go for it?” The slim black woman that fell into step beside him leaving the jail asked quietly, sporting a truly epic afro hair style and drawing the eyes of most of the men on the street.

“Of course. Even if he doesn’t believe a single word I’ve said, Lucas Bishop has no choice. Imagine him like a man hanging on to the edge of a cliff. He knows his grip is slipping, and that it is only a matter of time before he falls to the rocks below. Then, suddenly, he notices a small vine.” Erik paused, taking a deep, satisfied breath as the street flowed around him. “It’s too small to trust. He’s sure if he grabs it, it will just snap under his weight and send him to his fate. Do you know what he does, Raven?”

“Does it involve additional morbid mortality tales, because I have to say, I’d rather go dancing.” She said, looking bored. For all she loved Erik, his tendency to lecture was identical to her former foster brother Charles, and it was irritating from both of them.

“He grabs on to the vine and trusts it will hold, because when it involves survival, even the slimmest chance is better than none. We are Bishop’s last, slimmest chance. Looking around, I dare say that he’ll sympathize with our cause as soon as he learns of his mutant nature.”

“You’re sure he is a mutant.”

“We’ll do some testing, but Azazel was relatively certain. His story checks out. And the ‘M’ scarred into his face?” Erik smiled at her. “It makes you almost want to believe in fate.”

“If you say so. I’ve gone over the files on the prison. The easiest way would be to take him out of the yard as a guard, and then use a county sheriff to get him through to the release area, bypassing processing.” Raven had become an effective mission planner over the last few years, adding a core of professional skills to her already formidable powers.

“I will have Janos waiting with an appropriate vehicle.” He nodded, motioned them to cross the street, back towards where their car was parked. “Mutants like Bishop will be the future for us, Raven. Men and woman who are already aware of the hypocrisy and the lies of those in power. Look at the news – black militants, atomic China, Latino gangs. All of them put into little boxes by the powers that be and kept subjugated so they can’t change the balance of power.”

“I hear that you’re not the only one recruiting, Erik.” She replied, a too archly. He just shook his head.

“Yes, remember his companions, Raven. White men from the ruling class.” Erik laughed. “Unlike them, those we want for the Brotherhood already understand what it is like to be pushed down, and just how sweet it tastes to strike back against it.”

***


End file.
